Ah, Queen, your majesty is unparalleled, you are our patron of the arts, generous in every particular, particular to man’s freedom, eschewing stock, pillory and scaffold.
As she rises, sequins and braid tremble, every motion capsuled in scarlet, the very velvet of confidence—the robe quite long, ruffs and ruffles fresh, the jewels paying their worth: she walks, our Queen walks: we remember her mother scaffolded for adultery.
Henley Street
Shylock was less persistent than I to own, fief vs. chattel, clown vs. crown, thoughts vs. dreams: with such a goal, a man stoops, a man batters, a man astonishes himself with crudities that some might call vitality: this is the sighing, buying, signing: and when I began to own more land and houses I owned less and less time: that was my mortgage, paid over and over by less writing.
Henley Street
December 24, 1615
Scene: Seashore
| Lord Thomas | Was it yesterday? |
| Philo | No—it was the day before—at night. |
| Thomas | When...when was it? |
| Philo | Speak lower...they’ll overhear us! Sssh! |
| Thomas | I didn’t bury her the day before. No man buries love at night, only hate. You saw me carry her to her room—lay her down tenderly. You share the secrets of our lives...and now the secret of her death. ’Sblood, that is that remains for each of us, hide carefully, forgetting intrigue, forgetting Scotland... |